Whiting: Father of ultrarunning shares passion

If you think ultrarunners – people who consider the 26.2-mile marathon a warm-up – are a different breed, you would be correct.

I'm running with the man considered the father, or perhaps at this point the grandfather, of ultrarunning, Gordy Ainsleigh.

Back in 1974, when Ainsleigh's horse went lame just before a 100-mile equine race over the crest of the Sierra, the then-27-year-old Army veteran said to heck with four-legged animals. He'd simply run the race on his own two legs.

In the next 24 hours, Ainsleigh covered 100 miles along rocky trails, ran up and down mountains, waded through streams and rivers, and didn't stop until the next gray dawn and the finish line.

Ainsleigh's legendary run gave birth to what's now called the Western States 100 as well as to what non-runners call "the sport of ultradistance trail running."

Of course, some simply call people such as Ainsleigh nuts. And they just may be right – nuts in good way.

PARTY BUS

It's a little more than a year ago, and Ainsleigh and I are halfway through a six-day stage race called the Gore-Tex TransRockies Run. Before the race is done, we'll cover some 120 miles in the mountains of Colorado. On this day, I'm also in the back of the pack.

But the back is better than OK. Hanging with Ainsleigh, it's impossible to feel anything but being a winner.

Still regarded as an animal on any trail, Ainsleigh isn't here to win. Born in 1947 and with 22 Western States 100s under his belt buckles – the awards given for finishing in less than 30 hours – his competitive days were long ago.

Ainsleigh is here to have fun, and the best party is always in the back of the bus, although this particular "bus" is made up of nearly 400 runners stretching out over several mountains.

With miles still to go, we approach an aid station. Other runners arrive and gulp down energy drinks. But the greeting for Ainsleigh is different.

"Beer?"

Anything goes when one runs with Ainsleigh and his running partner in crime, Doug Malewicki, an Irvine resident.

Before the week is through, Ainsleigh also will impress with his ability to drink (in moderation), put away massive amounts of food, and whip off his shirt and hawk it to the highest bidder.

Don't worry. Ainsleigh isn't selling the clothes off his back to make ends meet. As a dedicated chiropractor, Ainsleigh's doing OK. The proceeds from his signed – and sweaty – shirts go to charity.

Also, don't worry about a man in his 60s stripping half-naked before a crowd of hundreds eating dinner.

If it weren't for gray chest hair, Ainsleigh – from the neck down – could be in his 30s.

Yes, some might consider Ansleigh a geezer, an old goat. But the dude's in serious shape.

Ainsleigh knows how to treat his body. He's been running since the day in the second-grade when he felt lonely and ran home for lunch.

ULTRARUNNING'S BIRTH

Of the 100-mile run – considered nearly impossible back in the day – Ainsleigh writes in an essay for marathonandbeyond.com:

"There are defining moments in every person's life when he or she must decide either to be sensible and do the reasonable thing or to embark on a perilous journey through a fog of uncertainties and attractive unknowns that cannot possibly be estimated for their risk.

"Faced with such a choice, we make our best guess and then either turn back or press forward."

Ainsleigh, who has strong bonds with Orange County and lives in Northern California, famously pressed forward that day in the High Sierra. But not without well-founded fear.

After about 42 miles and facing the race deadline, Ainsleigh reveals, "Considering how bad I felt and my rate of deterioration, I had to ask myself the big question: Was there any chance at all that I could make it through the remaining 58-plus miles to Auburn before 24 hours had elapsed?

"Given the relentless decline over the past 22 miles, the answer was clearly, 'No Way! '"

But in that moment, Ainsleigh dug down and found perseverance.

"My mind screamed, 'I can't quit!' The very thought of quitting was a horror gnawing within me. So I posed the next question: 'What can I do?' And the answer came back from the hollow desperation deep inside my soul:

"I can still put one foot in front of the other."

At a checkpoint, he stood, wobbled a little, and moved on down the path.

RUNNING THE ROCKIES

In the Rockies and just behind Ainsleigh, I hear a song. The founder of ultrarunning is singing about his cat. Yes, his cat. But as weird as the lyrics may be, it's not the subject matter that amazes me.

What amazes me is that Ainsleigh can sing and run at the same time.

On a run, I typically get carried away enough to sing – croak, really – a word or two while listening to my iPod. Blame it on the endorphins. But sing and run? Forget it.

Understand, we are at 12,000 feet. The air is thin. And we are pushing up big mountains. Still, Ainsleigh is grinning, happy and behaving as if he's at his favorite bar.

In a way, he is.

The former logger, juvenile counselor and construction worker greets everyone on the trail. And everyone greets him. By name.

Pick a trail, any trail, and Ainsleigh might as well call it "Cheers."

When he's not singing, Ainsleigh becomes a running encyclopedia. The topics vary depending on whom Ainsleigh is talking to. With a surgeon, he explores and debates the merits of surgery.

With me, he discusses proper nutrition until I'm lost in a blizzard of details supporting other details. Undaunted, Ainsleigh zooms on explaining the molecular difference between complex and simple carbohydrates, how the body absorbs them, and how quickly.

No fan of energy drinks or energy gel, Ainsleigh prefers something called "food."

At dinner, Ainsleigh piles on food. Remember the potato mountain Richard Dreyfuss's character carves in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind?" Well, Ainsleigh's plate looks something like that, but with more color.

Now, eating a small mountain of beans and veggies may seem like no big deal. But remember, most runners are terrified of eating too much the night before a long race.

And we have days to go before crossing the final finish line.

FIRST 100-MILER TOLL

Staggering along on that first 100-mile run, Ainsleigh suffers either a delusion or has an epiphany. Your call:

"I was put on this Earth with a mission," he writes, only somewhat joking, "to bring ultradistance trail running to a host of oddballs who would otherwise be damned to spend their lives visually brutalized by the often obscene works of Man while breathing the foul stench of car exhausts at the same time."

Can you tell Ainsleigh isn't a fan of road running's pavement pounding?

As Ainsleigh moves through the Sierra, he finally cuts the distance to the finish line to a few dozen miles. Then he finds extra fuel:

"I took off down into the Middle Fork Canyon beside...a lady I had had my eye on.

"I talked to her all the way to Auburn, figuring that this was probably my best chance to make a favorable impression. ... After all, I needed a woman whose idea of romance was horses munching all night."

ULTRA LEGACY

In the Rockies, as Ainsleigh crosses the finish line, dozens of runners cheer, applaud and hug the man who opened the door to running mountains.

"Go Gordy!"

The younger runners may have crossed today's finish line with Ainsleigh far behind, but they understand one thing: